When I was an adolescent in the late 1980s, the words “food stamps” might as well have been dirty.

When I read the news last week that a government task force had changed its guidelines on routine mammography screening, I did a double take.

While watching the HBO miniseries about the life of President John Adams last year, there was one scene that gave me chills.

The Morro Bay four-plex where Brad Ross lives was abuzz with activity on a recent weekday. One fellow resident needed help finding her glasses. Another stopped to show us some of his prized artwork.

When the heat of mid-June in Michigan rolled in, I often daydreamed at school about summer vacation. I looked forward to family trips, backyard barbecues and riding my bike until the street lights flickered on.

In the six years that I’ve lived in this county, I never had the pleasure of meeting or interviewing John DeVincenzo, the local orthodontist, farmer and businessman who died last weekend.

As a child, no one ever dared tell me--not my parents, teachers or mentors--that I couldn't be anything that I wanted to be.